Page 3 of Control

Remo’s eyes narrow. “A ten million dollar deposit?”

“No, no. It didn’t all go to me!” Davide’s voice cracks as he rushes his words. “I had to pay customs…and Juan. They all took their cuts. And after the cops busted us, we couldn’t sell everything. Getting buyers on the backend wasn’t easy. We were fucked.”

Remo doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, hands behind his back, his face blank, like he’s heard this bullshit a hundred times before. Then, slowly, he starts circling Davide.

I don’t know why I stay. Maybe I’m a masochist, or maybe I just can’t look away from the inevitable. Either way, I don’t move. I stay right where I am, watching.

Remo stops behind him, his hand landing heavily on the man’s shoulder.

“Oh, Davide, you’re really lucky, aren’t you?” His voice is calm, almost friendly. “The minute I heard what Juan did, Ididn’t even wait for him to explain himself or beg for mercy. I just shot him right between the eyes.”

“I know, Boss. And I’m grateful. I swear on my mother, I’ll pay you back every cent. I’ll work for you until I die. I owe you my life,” the man named Davide says, stumbling over his words.

“That you do, my friend,” Remo replies, his voice almost teasing now. He steps closer and taps the man’s face like they’re old friends. “Why don’t you go and make sure it’s all there so we can finish up? It’s been a long day.”

The man swallows. “Sure thing, Boss.”

Davide doesn’t make it three steps before the sharp sound of four gunshots cuts through the air. His body jerks, and the back of his skull explodes, spraying blood and brain matter across the wall. The rest of the crew? They don’t flinch. They don’t even blink. They just keep moving the goods like it’s another day at the office.

Another job, another dead body.

I want to say I’m not surprised, at least not in the way I should be. I’ve heard the rumors about the mafia’s dirty deals, the stories about people who just vanish. But this? This is my first time seeing it, watching someone drop like they weren’t even human, just another casualty. A man who was about to have a kid. A man with a story, a future.

I want to feel sorry for him. I really do. But I can’t afford that luxury. Not when I’m stuck here, praying I don’t get caught myself.

I need to move. Now.

Fear finally catches up with me, and my brain screams at my body to run. I take a step back, trying to make as little noise as possible, but then it happens. My foot catches on a loose chunk of concrete. The scrape is loud enough that it echoes in the empty building.

Their movements and everything freezes.

“Chi c’è?” Who’s there?

Shit.

Remo’s head snaps in my direction, and for a second, the world tilts. His eyes lock on mine—blue, cold, and unrelenting.

Run.

I spin around and bolt, my boots slamming against the concrete, the rhythm frantic. Then shouts behind me erupt—orders barked like commands. Footsteps follow—heavy, fast, closing in.

I don’t get far before a hand clamps around my arm and yanks me back like a ragdoll. I scream, but it dies in my throat when I’m spun around to face a man built like a brick wall.

“Let go!” I thrash, but he doesn’t budge, dragging me back toward the others as if I weigh nothing. My pulse is a drumbeat of panic.

Remo steps forward, his expression unreadable. Just a calculating coldness, like he’s already mapped out every move I could possibly make—and countered it.

“Who are you?”

The words are soft, but they cut deeper than a shout. My mouth dries up instantly, my throat locking like it’s forgotten how to work. I can only stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently that I wonder if it’ll crack.

He takes another step. “Answer me.”

“I was painting,” I croak out. The words are barely audible, swallowed by the roaring in my ears. I know better than to tell him my name. Names have weight, and in the wrong hands, they’ll crush you. Especially here. Especially with someone like him. A name is a death sentence if you aren’t careful who you give it to.

It’s a street-smart lesson you pick up fast—or you don’t live long enough to learn it. People disappear over things they could’ve walked away from. I’m not about to be one of them.

“Painting?” His eyes narrow, cutting into me like scalpels, stripping me layer by layer. “Here? Of all places?”

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